


And, In The Words Of Dean Winchester, "Make Me"

by Kennyisthecutest



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Big Brother Gabriel, Castiel owns a bookstore, Crowley Being an Asshole, Dean and Castiel fight, Dean owns a record store, It's Castiel you Asshatt!, M/M, Meg being a slut, Minor Character Death, Sarcastic Castiel, Sarcastic Dean, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:48:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2099637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kennyisthecutest/pseuds/Kennyisthecutest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based loosely around the prompt- AU where Dean owns a record shop and Cas owns a bookshop right beside it, and they both hate each other for stupid petty reasons and they constantly trade insults; one day Cas tells Dean to shut up, and Dean says "make me" and smirks, so Cas shoves him right up against the wall and bites his lower lip (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Green bins of Glory, 5 AM, and R.I.P. Coffee

The town of Stoneham Massachusetts seemed like any other run-of-the-mill kind of towns. The houses were decent, the location was borderline, and the schools were average.

If not worse.

But for what Stoneham lacked in luxury, the citizens made up for with character. Two people to be precise. The two known as Dean Winchester and Castiel Milton. Yet, this is not a boisterous city but a thin suburban town and when two men, each of which having enough character to fill every crescent of Chicago, collide in such small premises, pandemonium was bound to occur.

Six months ago, when Castiel Milton, an empire state building of a guy, asked upon the local realtor Mr. Crowley where he should open his bookstore, the man had one devious location picked out; next to the proud and tall record store, the one owned by a Shanghai Square of a man; Dean Winchester.

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It was five o'clock, five o'clock in the morning, five o'-fucking-clock AM and Castiel wasn't about to take this shit. The man was standing outside his quaint little nook 'Feathered Prints' with a face so ballistic, it could scare the cat from the canary. It was in the low thirties, a typical November morning in the icebox that was New England.

Castiel was draped in a dark blue long-sleeve tee, clearly meant for sizes a good three inches taller than his own five' eleven frame. (2*) His maroon and yellow flannel pants were rolled thick at his hips to prevent the inevitable wet ground from seeping around his ankles. Alas, even with the three-sum rolls, Castiel's pants still dragged, being barely propped up by his black slippers. These slippers serving as the one article of clothing that did not seem to swish about as he slapped his icy fingers hard against his five o'clock shadow. Five-ten o'clock shadow at this point.

Truth be told, Castiel was just trying to recycle.

The man let out a growl as he rubbed up and down his prickly cheeks, bending forward to glare at a grey blot of snow. Castiel did not want to be out here, and like most people, he would so much rather be wrapped in a knitted blanket, still willing the day until a more righteous hour such as, say nine, rear its sunshiny face.

But, no.

Here he was, trying to be a good person. And yet again, God did spite him. No, wait, not God. The alternative.

All he had to do was bring a bag of paper-esk materials out every Wednesday morning just out the door of his shop. Literally, it was just outside, a mere seven steps from the unpolished wood door. He just had to plop his bag full of miscellaneous items in the green bucket set out, so that somewhere between five and six thirty (there was no way of knowing what route the truck would take), a nice Eco-friendly company would come and make use of whatever it was Castiel was throwing away.

The system was flawless, even for forgetful people such as Castiel whom would often not remember to put such recyclables out after closing on Tuesdays, and he could then bike to work (gas being too expensive now a days) and complete the act that morning.

That is, if there was in fact the green recycle bin that he had obtained, supplying as not only a place to put the bag, but also as the only signal to hail the ecologically friendly company truck over.

It's not like Castiel Milton was some global-warming nut or anything, the man was simply concerned for the future of the next generations and them missing out on the true beauties of the world. And polar bears. And such.

Castiel thought it was the least he could do considering he owned a paper filled book store for God's sake.

And after all this work, waking up early, rushing out in the freezing cold in his pjs, hoping to not be spotted by any customers or family members, Castiel was less than pleased to know that yet again this green bin of glory was in fact missing. Scratch that, stolen.

No, this was not the smiting of any God or angelic being. It was in fact the entire opposite.

Lifting now clenched fingers from his scowl, Castiel straightened up, turning to face the atrocity that stood before him. A square and loud little shop with the big red letters with a golden outlining reading 'From the Devil's Tongue'.

"Screw you, Dean Winchester," Castiel roared, "and your little record store, too!"

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In another part of town, Dean rolled the tips of his fingers against the steering wheel, a defiant smirk riding his features. Unlike the other pea of the pod, Dean's face read nothing but delight, even at the ungodly hour. Dean Winchester, although contrary to popular belief, actually had no problem with early morning activities. This doesn't mean the man does not enjoy sleeping in late and rising up with the moon, because he of course he did, just not as much when opportunities as sweet as this one showed up.

As a heavy snicker left his lips, Dean's vision darted to the rear-view mirror, and he could have sworn the green plastic bin laying in the backseat winked back at him.

The whole plot kind of just came to him in his sleep.

He was dreaming a dream he couldn't quite remember when two angry blue eyes rolled in, and suddenly, Dean was seeing nothing but the good-for-nothing guy working his ass off to save the environment, sweating and panting even under the chilly November air. He was a mess, as usual, hair wild, eyes wilder, and of course, never a clean shave along his jaw. It was then Dean woke up in a sweat, knowing exactly what needed to be done. His body, mind and heart wanted nothing but to piss this guy off.

It had been a more difficult task then Dean had previously thought it would be, the idea of snatching the bin from the sidewalk just before his 'good friend' Castiel Milton would be undoubtedly be filling up in the early morning. Due to the guys immense stupidity of forgetting to fill it the day before, it seemed pretty simple. Wake up before the black haired prom queen and drive off, never to be seen again.

Instead Dean was faced with numerous difficulties.

First of which, he was unsure of when it was the recycle truck would come, and what day. He previously thought correctly that Wednesday was indeed the day they made their rounds, but a doubt slowly crept into his mind. Then, he began to question the time.

What if they already emptied the green bin? Dean would have no way of knowing since either way the bucket would be empty when he picked it up, and holding onto the green thing for an entire week would make him feel pretty freaking stupid. He decided checking the website of whoever it was that collected the garbage was his best bet.

He soon realized he had no idea what the goddam company was even called.

Dean ended up driving down the streets looking for any neighbor who had one of those green bins, knowing for sure that they listed the company name. After a while Dean found out that Castiel was one of the only people in the entire town of freaking Stoneham who recycled, and after making three loops around the town, he went to his work place. Which, if he did in the first place, would have saved him twenty plus minutes.

And somewhere between the actions of calling 411 to connect him to the 'ECO G.T.V' or whatever the hell it was, and treading through a pile of damned slush did

Dean Winchester, momentarily doubt, if he had interpreted the true meaning of his previous dream incorrectly.

It was only for a moment however, as much to his delight he was informed that he still had a good handful of minutes before the trucks even left.

So yes, there was a whole lot of effort that went into Dean's little prank, but as he pulled into his hand selected parking place, the spot just beyond the fire hydrant and slightly past the crosswalk (so that no reckless driver could park anywhere near his 2005 Ford Fusion without the tow-truck picking them up like a drunk schoolgirl stumbling into a frat,) his grin neither faulted nor shrunk, but grew ten-fold as a man in over sized pajamas and slight stubble, was cursing into the air, flailing middle-fingers like he discovered the things for the first time today.

It was only Five thirty and Dean's day was already made.

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"Which of Stephen King's did you find more terrorizing Castiel, 'Cujo' or 'Misery'?" Becky, as Castiel knew her as, and one of his top customers, asked, her thin hands rubbing the cover of both books. "I already read 'Pet Cemetery' last week, and I'm just looking for something new, you know? To, like, get my mind off it."

"Maybe then, you should choose something other than a horror story, Becky." Chuck, Becky's boyfriend of a few weeks, commented. He was a scruffy guy, and also a regular at 'Feathered Prints'. Castiel would think the two of them were being cute right now, Chuck's words somewhat annoyed but lingering with a caring tone, meanwhile his hands rubbed uneasily against the small of her back. They were new to be a true couple, but Castiel remembered clearly the dreamy glances casted at each other when they first would browse around his shop a few months ago. Chuck the wanna-be H.P. Lovecraft and Becky the avid bookworm.

But Castiel is in a horrible mood and probably wouldn't even smile if Chuck proposed to Becky right then and there.

"You know I can't rest till I've read each of King's works, front to back!" Becky said, turning to her other with wide eyes.

"That might take a while Beck… considering there's, like, more than seventy of them…" Chuck grumbled now shifting back and forth.

"So, Castiel," She said, entirely ignoring the man beside her, "what do you think?"

He sighed, rubbing his aching head before turning around and moving off to a large maze of books. The place, although a bookstore, appeared as a comfy nook. The shelves, floor and walls, all built of dark woods, some glossier than others. The windows were always drawn with off white shutter lines and the place itself was filled with a warm, creaky shade. Although the store was indeed dim, it was brightened by large embroidered chairs, rugs, and coffee table, a small lantern and an assortment of pillows at each cavern of the store.

'Feathered Prints' has been officially open for business for a mere five months, yet Castiel had already gathered a noble set of hardcover, soft-cover, used, new, mystery, romance, horror, and comedy to poetry book collection. He would spend the majority of his time, doting on each section, finding his preferences in all sorts of areas. For example, although he had less skill in gardening then he did flying jet planes, Castiel was enamored by books with bright flowers and growing methods. He deemed orchids his favorite and decided that before he died, he would grow an orchid garden, even though New England weather would surely not permit it (orchids need to grow in temperature between 70 and 80 degrees Fahrenheit).

Castiel knew the collection far better, he learned from an anatomy book, then the back of his hands (where twenty-seven bones are located). His palms dipped forward after stopping at a shelf he could located with or without sight graced by his 'Oculus' (another, more scientific sounding, word for sight).

With a dreary sigh and thought directed at a dark caffeinated drink, Castiel slugged back to his desk, lazily plopping the hardcover book against the wood counter.

"This is 'The Stand,' the books you're looking at, although great, are not supernatural," Castiel mumbled, clearing his throat to lock eyes with the eager looking girl caught up in every one of his words, as if he was King himself, "I personally am more into realistic horror, but I know you enjoy such things."

Becky nodded quickly eagerly grabbing the book of the desk and holding up like the little Simba it was.

"'The Stand' was one of King's finest. Its set in an apocalypse brought on by the Government letting a bastardly horrid sickness loose. There are but a thousand immune and these are the ones needing to stop a demonic villain known as the 'Dark One'. King captures-"

"No spoilers!" Becky yelped, slamming a light handful of dollars and coins upon the mahogany.

Castiel watched her determined expression for a moment before nodding, determined not to roll his eyes.

"Hey, you okay Castiel? You seem a little..." He didn't need to look up from the register to know that Chuck was moving his hands around.

"Okay? As in functioning, yes. Normal? No. I am no longer running on energy, but pure animosity. That can't quite be normal now, can it?" The man behind the counter hummed, glancing up to the weary (and wearing) couple.

"My God, what happened?-"

"Becky," Castiel cut her off abruptly, "it wasn't any act of God. It was an act of pure human fuckery." (1*)

The girl paused, staring into the heavy blue. Castiel leaned over, tapping a thin finger against her hard-cover book, ending her desperate search.

Instantly her features shifted, an open mouth smile and bright eyes were ever present as she grabbed Chuck's wrist and marched out to store, the ringing of the hanging bell doing wonder's on Castiel's headache.

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Dean spun loops around his record store, running his worn fingers across an endless selection of 'The Who,' 'Led Zeppelin,' and more 'Black Sabbath' then the eye could see. It was in Dean's best interest to make his shop as welcoming as it could be, for thanks to iTunes, Pandora, and all the other ways people were getting music online put Dean's business in jeopardy. It seemed the goofball next door had yet to realize this as the darkness cast off by his store quite literally crept onto the sidewalk.

Unlike 'Feather Prints,' 'From The Devil's Tongue' was entirely bright, open, standout-ish, and incredibly simple with design, despite the name. Ironic really, considering you didn't need light to hear music, but to read it was a necessity. Yet hear Dean was, surrounded by massive glass windows, beige wood work, and white tiled floors. The music some may say was ancient (much of it released between the late 60's and early 80's) yet the wide room itself very modern. Dean started off only supplying his personal favorite, the 70's rock era, and just that, but slowly he realized that he would need to broaden his horizon if wanting to draw in anyone younger than the age of fifty-two. Slowly more modern bands, such as 'The Black Keys,' 'Cage the Elephant' and 'The Red Hot Chili Peppers' became slightly more occurrent.

Just as predicted, small clusters of teenagers filtered through the shop from day to day, currently a small group crowded around a collection by 'The Cold War Kids'. However, unexpectedly one boy, probably around eighteen or nineteen stood entirely alone, his palms musing over a selection by 'AC/DC'.

Entirely intrigued, Dean, still straddling the back of a black wheelie-chair, pushed himself around to where the high schooler was browsing.

His eyes were hazy lost Dean doubted if he even heard him squeaking behind him, yet a strange smile stayed on his face. He was definitely enjoying whatever it was he was doing.

"Whatcha lookin' at there?" As if to prove Deans point, the boy laughed, looking all too relaxed. He was shortish, and not too lean, a 'Grateful Dead' shirt proudly hanging from his shoulders. If that didn't spike Dean's interest, then the poorly cut, but blatantly obvious, mullet did. This kid was clearly a pot-head.

"Just try'na ya know," the boy said, leaning back against the shelf awkwardly, "catch some sweet vibes."

"Uh-huh." Dean smirked, his lids low and eyebrow slanted. Oh, he knew alright. "Name?"

"Ash. Wait. Shit man. Why?" Ash here, was now paranoid beyond belief.

"Nothin'. Just make sure you don't start munching out on my disks, okay?" Dean said, resting his chin on the top of the back-rest.

Ash nodded once all of that previous fear drying up before treading back over the display.

"You sure 'AC/DC' is really for you?" Dean said after watching the kids back sway between the set-up, "I peg you more for a 'Sublime' kind of guy."

Ash let out a low sigh as he turned back to face Dean, a now sarcastic kind of thoughtful dressing his face.

"I know what you're thinking man, and yeah, okay, it's kinda true, but I really do like Rock n' Roll, and these guys keep showin' up on my Pandora and, dammit man, we should all just like what we like, like man, who even goes by stereotypes anymore?"

Dean held back a laugh. Poorly.

"Well if you wanna start with the basics," Dean said, his fingers clasping around a black album with big black letters across the case, "this is where you wanna start."

"'Back in Black'? What's this there most famous album or somthin'?" Ash said, taking the plastic out of Dean's fingers and holding it far too close to his face.

"Most famous and probably the best, although I do also like 'Highway To Hell'. If I were you though, I'd get this one."

Ash lowered the album, his rosy whites narrowing slightly, "Why?"

"Why?" Dean repeated loudly, his body arching forward as a bellowing laugh escaped his lips, "I'll tell you why kid, this album changed lives, fucking lives. Not like this is some girly, get in with your feeling kinda shit though, it just made people bad-ass! The lyrics here are simple and awesome, nothing to distract you as Malcolm and Angus rip the tracks apart with their guitar riffs, and get this, the album is a tribute to Bon Scott, who died right after they finished the album. The Bon Scott,how awesome is that?"

Ash paused, staring warily at Dean as he lit up like a Christmas Tree.

"Dude, how old are you? You know this stuff too well. Were you there or something?" (*2)

"Hey, fuck you." Now a Christmas tree in late july. "I'm twenty nine, and I own a record store, I'm supposed to know this shit. Now you gonna buy it or not?"

"Uh, y-yeah man. Of course."

The two walked back to the front of the store, Dean's register resting upon a high table besides the window, giving the man a pleasant view of the rest of the street. That currently includes a shoveling Castiel clearing his entryway of snow.

Dean grinned. He looked no happier than he did this morning.

"Thanks for helping me out today man, appreciate it. Oh, I want in in vinyl by the way." Ash said as Dean absently nodded grabbing a bigger vintage disk and gliding it along the scanner, his eyes trained were on the man who seemed to be overly aggressive with his shoveling. Dean thought it may have had something to do with the guilt of being not so green. Suddenly his eyes fell upon a massive thermos that no doubt, was fill to the brim with coffee. He guessed that the brunette had put his hot caffeinated drink to the side of the sidewalk so that he could simply grab it when he finished plowing.

"That will be fifteen-" Just then Dean Winchester got another great idea.

"Uh… you there man… I thought I was the stoned one…"

"You know what," Dean grinned, waving the vinyl in hand, "you can have this for free."

"Woah, man really? That's chill of you."

"Yeah, all you gotta do," The Cheshire cat said, "is kick that guy's coffee over."

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Castiel dug his upper teeth into his lower lip. Not a thoughtful sort of nip, but an actual chomp. His crisp November Wednesday did not get any better from this morning, and seemed to be on a continued spiral to hell. After Mr. Dean, douchbag, Winchester stole his recycle bin (which the brunette is still yet to reprimand him for), Castiel got a call from none other than Mr. Crowley, the landowner of the entire Fifth avenue of Stoneham. He was demanding payment for this month before the end of the week.

Fifth Avenue was a major street in Stoneham, just not a main one. It was fairly busy, holding six buildings, all lined up in a row. Each building was paired off with another, the two standing only three or four feet from another, creating a thin alleyway in between each set. The sets were separated by a side street, so that it would take a crosswalk, or an empty road, to travel from a building of one pair to another.

A gas station run by Bobby Singer a grumpy and level headed older man, and a small pub owned by a woman named Ellen and her daughter Jo, both of which welcoming but somewhat sly, were the first pair on Fifth ave.

Castiel and Dean's shops stood in the center, and just beyond them Gabriel, the book seller's brother, owned a candy store. He would often stop by, even though both him and Castiel shared a tightly packed apartment. Next to Gabe's little sweet shop did Balthazar, a cousin to the two, and a handful of others reside in a local bank.

It was just a pocket of people, each trying get by under the scorching flame of Mr. Crowley. It is expected for a landlord to seek payment for his property, but what this man did was different. With a front face of sincerity and knowledge, lured people in, offering them all but kindness, until that is, they sign onto the property.

Mr. Crowley found Castiel while he was taking notes at the library. Once the man realized Castiel was not taking notes on any book or newspaper, but the actual library itself, he began his little scheme. Castiel bought the property while Crowley took him out to dinner, ordering the most expensive champagne for the two of them, smiling as he handed Castiel the final contract.

From the moment Castiel's cursive line separated from the page, the atmosphere shifted. Mr. Crowley got up from the table, and drove off in his car, not another word, not a dollar for the bill or luxury alcohol. Caught under the devil's trap.

Mr. Crowley would raise rents dependent on the amount of liquor in his belly and cash in his pocket. He would maneuver through loopholes, snaking, so that someone would need to pay before the end of the month. Anyone who goes against him regrets it. He smiles at you, buys you a box of quality caramels, and rips your business (as well as a few other things) to shreds.

Today he wants the rent for each pair to be paid a week or so in advance. He argues this is fair because of the cost of salting the sidewalks. If anyone mentions that salting the sidewalks was paid for by the town, then their rent would be tripled till the end of the next year.

In turn Castiel was put under the ringer.

Ever since the fucking 'Kindle' became invented, things weren't easy, but Castiel did all he could.

Even now, Castiel shoveled along the sidewalks, making his small building just a bit more welcoming.

The man grunted, his eyes flickering up to the thermos sitting against his store. Castiel told himself that only after he's finished clearing the walkway, could he indulge in its hot taste, which was surprisingly hard to come by for the brunette. Castiel had yet to buy a coffee maker for the bookstore, and as long as the rent kept coming as it was, it would be a long time before his coffee was instant.

After clearing another three feet Castiel was faced with a standstill. The termination zone. The one before the alleyway, the gap dictating the store of Dean Winchester's from his own.

He pursed his lips, squinting to into the thin snow flooring that fell just beyond his toes.

Castiel fought between two things. One, Dean would have to pay the rent early as well.

Also, how bitterly cold it was.

Castiel was thoughtful for a moment before readjusting the scarf around his neck. With a shallow puff of air, he bent back down, clearing a visible pathway to the center of Dean's shop.

He grumbled something about hell before throwing his mittens off, seemingly less satisfied than when he ten minutes ago.

Stuffing the wool material into his coat pocket Castiel turned around, dragging his shovel back towards his own shop. He turned just in time to see it.

A purposely placed kick by some punk, hollering, "Long live rock n' roll!" as Castiel's thermos tipped.

Castiel quivered. His entire body shook. Watching, as the coffee coated the sidewalk. Crying for someone to drink it.

That wasn't the only thing Castiel got the chance to see.

He also watched the punk turn back around, shoot him with a finger gun, and high-five Dean Winchester.

One hundred things exploded between Castiel's ears as that same teenager ran out the record store.

"Thanks for the vinyl, man!" He said, waving a large paper square behind his back.

Castiel didn't even hear him for he was already leaping through Dean's door.

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By the time Castiel slammed his fists against the front DESK, Dean was cackling. The man's face in his palms and not even the background voice of Bon Jovi screaming the words "It's My Life," could block out his bellows as they echoed throughout the store.

"Winchester," Castiel hissed, two icy cold eyes blaring.

"Hah-hey, bu-buddy," Dean breathed through his laughter, subsequently wiping a tear from his eye.

"I am not your buddy, you fuck-hole, shit-head, of a man."

Dean clapped his hands together, dressed in a grin that could swallow the better part of Texas, "Woah Cas, did ya' make those up all on your own?"

"For the last time Winchester, it's not Cas." The brunette bit back, his lips clamped tightly together.

"Awe, come on," Dean ushered, crossing his arms and peering down through hooded eyes, "I know you like it."

"Burn in hell."

Dean sniggered, his callous smile wide, "We'll someone's in a bad mood!"

Castiel was squinting so forcefully at this point, the man would have wrinkles before he hit thirty. "I wonder why."

"Oh that?" Dean said motioning to the sidewalk where brown droplets tricked across the pavement. He was wearing that same old shit eating grin, "I had absolutely nothing to do with that."

"Bullshit."

"Bullshit? Come on, I thought it would be like… turtle shit or something'.You're losing your originality, Cas!"

"Shut up!"

The two were now at a face off. One with a defiant, smirk; the other, a toxic glare.

Castiel was so very close at that point, to reaching over and slamming the man against his stupid CD racks and ripping him apart right then and there, but the smarter part of his brain kicked in, telling him there were better ways to go about this. Ways that presented much less of a risk at getting his two front teeth punched out.  
"Peace be inside me, tolerance all around me, forgiveness in my path," Castiel muttered, backing away, never taking shifting his cold eyes from the man, "now, Mervall, show me where the filthy human is so that I may feed him his organs." (3*)

Slowly the brunette stepped away, breaking the staring contest between him and his un-significant other.  
"Yeah, okay," Dean snorted, flicking a hand in the air as Castiel fled through the door and marching past his window. "Whatever the hell that means."

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter One Notes  
> (1*)- Castiel is being the witty little nerd he is and is quoting King's book 'The Stand'  
> (2*)- Dean is 29 while Cas is 28. They are also the same height as they are in Supernatural, so Cas is truly 5'11 and Dean is 6'1.  
> (3 *)- This quote is from Eoin Colfer's 'Artemis Fowl: The Time Paradox'. Pretty vengeful.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please comment!


	2. FUs, Revenge, and Panda Bear Auras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I certainly got you back good, Mr.Winchester.”  
> 
> 
> “You know what they say Cas, my dear friend,” Dean clucked back, “an eye for an eye and the whole world will be blind.” He then coughed out a laugh. “Quote de Gandhi, surprised you don't know that one considering you do own this shitty little bookstore."  
> 
> 
> “Oh, I do in fact know that mildewed saying Mr.Winchester, friend of mine, and I certainly cannot stand the blind. They hurt business see.” Castiel answered, now glancing up from his book.  
> 
> 
> “But if you believe that sending my recycle bin to worlds unspoken is the embodiment of taking away my ‘eye’ then I supposed that I seemed to have taken both your legs, perhaps arms, and most definitely a spinal cord.” Castiel’s words sent Dean reeling, his brain decoding as the brunette stood up and padded his way to a bookshelf. “And I truly don’t have a problem with the disabled.”

"Jesus Christ, Dean."

“Yeah,” the man said into the cell phone beside his ear, “I know.”

“Do you even know what that means?” Sam Winchester’s voice sounded through the small speaker, “Or what that’s what means?”  
  
“No,” Dean grunted, a slight smile playing on his face, “but I’m sure you do.”  
  
Sam coughed as Dean absently drummed his hands across the dashboard. The man was parked in the dark, vacant space next to his home, the asphalt matching the sky, if not for the one street light that bleared a block down. Dean could have just spoke to his younger brother inside, but the crappy little car was somehow more desirable at the moment.  
  
“You are such a nerd.”  
  
“Oh, shut up!” The younger one snapped, although in a tone of clear light-heartedness. Dean assumed Sam was smiling right then. It was a good image. One he didn’t get the opportunity to see often.  
  
“So, what are you going to do?”  
  
“Hm? Oh,” Dean said, blinking out of his mild trance, “you know, the usual. I’ll just wait to see how he gets me back, then, sort of do the same thing over again.”  
Sam stayed quiet for a moment. “Don’t you get tired of doing that?”  
  
“What, messing with that asshole?” Dean said loudly, suddenly becoming uncomfortable as he used one hand to pull down at his scruffled cheeks, “I mean of course Sammy, but what am I going to do?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Sam’s voice grew a slight edge to it as it rung in Dean’s ear, “maybe actually do something, next time?”  
  
Dean knitted his brows together, shifting upright in the driver’s seat, “and what would that be, exactly?”  
  
“I-I don’t know, it just seems like he’s always the one to ruin shit, you know?”  
  
“I don’t know.” Dean moved again, peering through the corner of his window, “I’d say were pretty even.”  
  
Sam grunted something at that. “Even? Dean, you and that prick are definitely not even.”  
  
Now his forehead was against the steering wheel.  
  
“Remember when he bought a whole bunch of CDs and sold them ten cents less than what you sold them for? Or the time he dug out the electricity box? Or when he covered your walls with syrup so the whole place was swarming with bees?”  
  
“Yeah, but then he gave all the CDs he didn’t sell, which was a decent amount, or I guess he threw them at me but still, and the electricity still worked it was just a pain, and the bees? Well, yeah, the bees where pretty shitty of him, but-”  
  
“Dean,” the familiar word made his body all too aware, finding complete unease in the base of his neck and between his knuckles, “why are you defending this prick?”  
  
“You-you’re right, Sammy.”  
  
“Just be wary of him, alright?”  
  
“Yeah,”  
  
“Yeah.”  


His hands on the door handle and knees under the wheel.  


“I miss you. A lot.”  
  
“I know, I miss you too.”  
  
“Get better soon, okay?”  
  
“Okay.”  


His head between the seat and headrest, fingers pulling at the seat’s interior.  


“I’d better hit the hay Sammy. G’night.”  
  
“Night. We still on for friday?”  
  
“Man, of course. I’ve been dying to see you for the past year!”  
  
“Me too.”  


Then, absolutely proper.  


 

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"Jesus, baby bro," Gabriel , reaching across the coffee table for the bottle of scotch, "you deserve at least a few more drinks for all that douchebag is putting you through."  
  
"Thanks Gabe," Castiel sighed, rolling back into the crimson sofa cushion, "but I have a new shipment coming in tomorrow and I doubt a raging headache is going to do anything good for me."  
  
Gabriel hummed quietly, watching as his brother arched his stiff body from his seat. The poor kid was already bearing through constant migraines and sleep deprivation, it was a shame he had to deal with more.

Gabriel was use to hearing Castiel vent about the guy who worked next to him, he would also commonly help with plan small acts of revenge. The things they came up with were petty for the most part, Castiel never seeming to want to do anything too horrible because somehow he believed his neibor may actually have some good qualities they were unaware about.  
  
But in Gabriel's view, Dean Winchester was nothing but a piece of shit.  
  
"I really wish I could do something for you Castiel. It just isn't fair…"  
  
"Honestly, I'll be fine, what we really should be concerned about is paying off Crowley as well as this months appartment rent."  
  
The two sighed in unison, the dread looming over both boys as they watched their television flicker through scenes of a show neither were particularly interested in.  
"I-I'm sorry, I… Anna was better at this, if she was here-"  
  
"Gabriel," Castiel said, his eyes trained on his brothers, "we are going to be fine.""  
  
Both brothers sat like that for a while, facing forward with the television's glow illuminating their placid features. Both unwilling to move. Both afraid to break the 'fine' silence.  
  
"Yeah," Gabriel whispered, his fingers picking into his bitten nails, "we deserve that at least."  
  


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Dean’s eyes shifted left and right, left and right and, left and right: a steady scan for anything out of the ordinary. His fingers fitted with a shudder from the glass window, morning light cutting across his cheekbones. The man was walking on threads.  
  
“Yo!” Dean flinched, releasing a growl as he turned to respond to whatever tapped him on the shoulder.  
  
“Uh, you feelin’ okay, man?” Dean gave Ash a look of incredulous, before quickly shaking his head.  
  
“Yeah, I’m just,” he grumbled, twisting his face to the front window once more, “a little on edge.”  
  
Ash snorted, running his fingers through the locks of his hair. “I can tell! You’re freaking the fuck out.”  
  
Dean lets out a gruffed breath while running his fingers through his hair. “Are you here to return? Because you should have read the policy-”  
  
“Nah! I’m lovin the album, thinkin of getting another later this week actually,” Dean through Ash a heavy glance and grumbled before returning to his suspicious searching.  
  
“What’s eating at your dick an’ balls, man?”  
  
Dean’s eyebrows squirmed together, giving Ash another once over. “Is that a saying or somethin’, now?”  
  
“Ah. Kinda.”  
  
“That’s pretty freaking gross.”  
  
“I… am sorry?”  
  
“Yeah. You should be. Filthy teenager.”  
  
Ash, bizarrely as usual, bobs his head up and down, completely accepting the slander before following the other man’s weary glances to the blinded window.  
“You know they're coming either way.” Ash muttered, now himself glossing through the shutters, “And, no, there is nothing we can really do but try to infiltrate there Enochian system.” He said, now shaking his head in dull disadisfaction. “I’d suggest of salt barriers around windows, a devil trap at the door, and a blood sign somewhere in reach.”  
  
“Dude,” Dean says, mindfully inching away from the other, “what the hell are you talking about?”  
  
“The apocalypse, duh.” Ash said with an incredulous tone before looking to catch the side turn of Dean’s head, his eyes wide and waiting for Ash to down right start knifing.  
  
“That-that is what you're freaking about, right?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
If Ash could have felt awkward, then right then, he would have felt awkward, but Ash can’t feel awkward, so instead of feeling awkward he nods in huge proportions.  
Dean scuffs up his sleeves before growling something incoherent to his side. He should probably kick the kid out before he wastes anymore time, but instead, he leans in a little closer, serious doubts being pushed to the side.“Look, I probably shouldn’t be venting to a dip-shit kid like you about this,- no offence,”  
  
“None taken, amigo,”  
  
“But, its just remember that guy? The one who's coffee you kicked over?"  
  
"Oh, you mean the guy who was shoveling. The panda bear man?"  
  
"Yeah, the panda- wait what? Why is he 'The Panda Bear Man'?"  
  
"Dude! That guy has the perfect embodiment of a panda bear aura. How could you not tell?"  
  
"Probably because I'm not a freak, or sky high, or a combination of the two."  
  
"Yeah, anyway, continue with the story."  
  
Dean quickly noticed Ash not only seemed to be un-aggressive towards his rapid jabs and name calling, but actually accept a lot of it. "Well, see me and that guy, we sort of have a little war."  
  
"Ah. I see the problem already. Fireworks, although banned in Massachusetts, not that that is any problem for me, could prove to be a useful tool to quickly overcome the masses."  
  
"Ash. Shut the hell up."  
  
"Yes sir!"  
  
"We don't actually fight, we just sort of, you know, do petty little things. Nothing that ever matters much. I kick over his mailbox, he puts my mail in someone else's, he writes bad words and shit on the back of my building, I draw porn on his. Nothing, right? Well, two days ago, not only did I steal his recyclable bin, but I also paid you in music to kick over his beloved coffee. Now I expected something back, but literally, I've got nothing. So- Ash? Ash?"  
  
The kid was bumping along on his feet, his shoulders hopping and head bopping.  
  
“Ash, are you even with me, man?”  
  
“Like PB and J. So, this guy not pone-ing you back could be absolute travesty.” It seemed even with his head in the clouds, Ash could be somewhat aware.  
  
“Y-Yeah. Wow. So, what do you think I should do to avoid it?” Dean said. He wasn’t going to be taking an eye off this kid.  
  
“Well,” Ash breathed out, “tragedy is ultimately unavoidable, but you should probably try to make amends. Even if they are temporary.”  
  
“But, he’s a prick.”  
  
“No, didn’t you hear me, dude? He is clearly a spiritual panda bear spirit.”  
  
“And you, are clearly are on the verge of overdosing.”  
  
Ash gave a big cheese grin as he leaned an elbow against the unusually shaped windows, his lids at their consistent low. “I’m right though, aren't I?”  
  
Dean mumbled, maybe growled, before responding. “Yeah, I guess so.”  
  


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Castiel wouldn’t look up from ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ for any sort of ringing bell, even if it did signal a new customer’s arrival at his bookstore. His eye’s didn’t shift before, or while, a boisterous presence hovered over to his desk. He hardly even reacted, back still arched, head still lowered, as a guttural cough sounded. Castiel wouldn’t look up from Charles Dickens for just anything, but when a piping hot styrofoam cup o’ joe was miraculously placed on the counter, he supposed it sufficed for a glance.

“Hey there, Cas!”

To say Castiel was even slightly moved by Dean Winchester's sudden appearance would be an overstatement.

  
“Castiel. I do believe we have gone over this.” He said it with a twisted smile. Castiel had been waiting for Dean to show up, oh how he knew the man pinned over this sort of thing.  
  
Dean waved his hand in the air, brushing off the comment as if it was a crumb with wings.  
  
“I brought you coffee.” He said before planting a rather large handful of sugar packets on Castiel’s desk.  
  
“I see that you did.”  
  
“I know you like sugar, too.” Dean scrunched up his nose for a brief second, then plowed his hands into his jacket pockets. “Aren't I sweet?”  
  
Castiel grabbed five packets ripping them simultaneously while the white sugar hit the hot liquid with a soft hiss. “Like a shot of aspartame.” (1*)  
  
Dean skinned his lips with his tongue, a steady stare monitoring each of Castiel’s actions. The trust they had in each other was truly something of other worlds.

“I do hope this is recyclable.” Castiel hummed, “I’ve been having quite a bit of trouble protecting mother nature this week.” The man was all too aware of the nervous dancing under Dean’s creased forehead. “You would not happen to know anything about that, would you?”  
  
Dean chuckled a blistering smile gracing his features. “Ah yes, well you see, I just happen to, accidently, put your recyclable bin in my car, then, also accidentally, drive away with it. In turn, accidentally, on purpose, pissing you the fuck off.” He was sweet indeed, sickeningly so.  
  
Castiel was about to break the act, and he knew Dean could tell.  
  
Quickly his eyes flashed back down, showing his anger for only a brief moment. The look was quickly replaced as brighter thoughts of revenge floated through his mind.  
  
“I certainly got you back good, Mr.Winchester.” Castiel said into his cup, not in the least bit surprised as the familiar florescent green bin was placed on his table.  
  
“You know what they say Cas, my dear friend,” Dean clucked back, probably hoping that Castiel would let up on him now that his barrel was returned, “an eye for an eye and the whole world will be blind.” He then coughed out a laugh. “Quote de Gandhi,” He was also probably displeased Castiel seemed the least bit fazed all of the sudden.  
  
“Surprised you don't know that considering you do, in fact, own a bookstore. It’s shitty, but still a bookstore.” That hit a chord. A thin one, but a badly tuned note in Castiel’s chest. He smiled back nonetheless.  
  
“Oh, I do infact know that mildewed saying Mr.Winchester, friend of mine, and I certainly cannot stand the blind. They hurt business see.” Castiel said, now glancing up from his book.  
  
He then let out a drawn sigh before slamming the cover shut and locking angry eyes with the other, “But if you believe that sending my recycle bin to worlds unspoken is the embodiment of taking away my ‘eye’ then I supposed that I seemed to have taken both your legs, perhaps arms, and most definitely a spinal cord.” 

Castiel’s words sent Dean reeling, his brain decoding as the brunette stood up and padded his way to a bookshelf. “And I truly don’t have a problem with the disabled.”  
The words clicked in time with the novel hitting the back of the wood shelve.  
  
“Cas,” Had the name been said alone, it would have came across as a dear friend, family member, or even lover, as reasurement or a careful warning. Not in a way that would signal the bursting of brain cells and the jolting of the amygdalae. Not in a way that could only be answered by a blatantly sarcastic smile and a shrug of the shoulders.  
  
“What did you do?”

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Dean didn’t have to trace the space between the crosswalk and fire hydrant with his eyes, but he did anyway. Just to be sure that it was truly bare. Just to be sure there was actually no car there. Just to be sure that Castiel deserved his neck snapped.

  
“You know, all I had to do was push an inch.” Said brunette cawed, standing comfortably on the sidewalk, a good ten feet away from the volcano known as Dean Winchester. “I believe parking where you did was, what do you call it? ‘Asking for it?’”

To think Dean truly wanted to make amends.

“I was afraid that you would just get a ticket, so I ended up calling the toa service.”  
  
Dean was repulsed that he even considered it.  
  
“Just to be-”  
  
“You son of a bitch.”  
  
Castiel flinched. Then reminding himself that yes, Dean Winchester got violent. Not nearly as often as he got snarky, but it happens.  
  
“How,” He bared through gritted teeth, “how the fuck, could you think that was okay?” The tone jarred shards of glass through Castiel’s skin, a nauseous pit pinching his stomach.  
  
Dean spun on his heals, face red and splotchy angrier then Castiel had ever seen him. He wanted to back away, run possibly, simply do all he could to escape the venom that fueled the Dean’s eyes. Never had he seen such a wicked green.  
  
“Shut up.” Castiel bit too quickly to be considered confident. Unaware of the clenched fists by his sides, both shaking not with anger but fear.  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
The lump in Cas traveled up and down his throat.  
  
“It’s not a traumatic event. Simply get to the impact zone and pay the fine. You can probably get it back by the end of the day!"  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
“I-I” The ground was shifting. Castiel thought he was going to be sick. “I’ll even split the bill with you!”  
  
Dean’s pinpoint orbs didn’t glow the way they usually did. They didn’t gleam in his little mischievous light, a light that always lit through even while bringing spray-paint across Castiel’s building.  
  
“Fuck,” The third time he said it so slowly, it made heat rise to Castiel’s forehead,” _you_.”  
  
“Why are you making such a big deal about this?” He yelled back, his throat dry as if Castiel had been screaming for the past decade.  
  
“Because,” Castiel heard the words hiss in his ear as Dean instantly approached, his palm clasping across the side of his neck, “It’s friday, and I had someone I needed to see.”  
  
Dean was gone by the time Castiel remembered how to open his mouth. Leaving him breathless and alone on the sidewalk, pin needles diving through his spine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two Notes  
> (1*) Aspartame in the stuff put in to replace sugar in a lot of diet foods. For example, instead of using a ton of sugar, diet coke will only use a drop of aspartame per bottle. It's incredibly strong and many people (including myself) feel sick from it. So, a shot of aspartame would be disgusting!


	3. An Eye Of Berry Crumble, Betty Crocker, and... A Date(?)

    One week later a fat fly circled a red cherry pie, having moved on from the pale almond cookies discarded in the trash bin, not one of them eaten.

“Go ahead, you porky lil’ shit, you.” Dean coed, standing nearly still behind his desk, a thickly rolled newspaper held above his head. “‘M not gonna eat it anyway…”

The buzzard descended, his sticky fingers clasping the brim of the dish, stringy little head feelers running across the crust. Totally unsuspected of it’s soon-to-be death weapon hovering closer, and closer and close-

“Hey there, Deanski!” Swing and a miss.

Dean’s whole body deflated as the fly took off, now hovering loops around the man in front the counter.

“Not interrupting anything, am I?”

Dean swore there was delight in the other man’s voice, but he forced a smile.

“Sorry, I don’t believe I know you.”

“Gabe,” the shorter man nodded, a piercing sense of animation lifting his brows as he pointed diagonally from the window, “I run the sweet shop down the street.”

“Oh,” Dean offered a hand over the counter, “pleasure to finally meet yah! I would have introduced myself sooner but, you know...” He continued, slowly sagging his arm.

Gabriel stood with both hands in pockets, his eyes peering down as if offering a hand on a first meeting is some kind of foreign ritual.

“Yeah,” He mumbled, speckled eyes never raising to meet Dean’s, “just moved in six months ago.”

Dean grumbled a sound of understanding while his lonely fingers now weaved across the back of his neck, “Funny, seems like everyone is coming’ now. You and that… guy next door.”

Gabriel made the same sort of grumble, but slightly more exaggerated, not to mention the deliberate stroking of the chin. “We’ll you know,” He nodded, his whole face puckered up, “us brothers gotta stick together.”

It took a couple seconds to click.

“Brothers?”

“And there it is!” Gabriel clapped, whooping loudly, “The face I’ve been waiting the past forty seven seconds to see!” He huffed out before running his hands across Dean’s desk.

“I know what you're thinking, we look nothing alike! I’m sexy, handsome, a genital magnet-”

“Short”

Gabriel darkened for a mere moment before brushing the word away as if it was the fly that still circled.

“Well, yes, that too. But, nonetheless, Castiel over there,” He said, cheek tight on one side as he motioned to the bookstore store, “is my little bro.”

Dean watched him callously, arms crossed and chin tucked. He was glowering.

“If you came to apologize for that-... for him, well then you can get the hell out of my store, or wait for me to show you the way.”

“Well,” Gabe responded in a high tone, arms similar to Dean’s and feet together, “apologizing, isn’t really, my thing.”

Dean rose a brow as the man unwound. He seemed to be only slightly more timid of his size then Castiel. Which isn’t much.

“Yah see, Deanie, I’m more here too, let’s see what’s the word? Oh yes, threaten you.”

“To threaten me?”

“Yuppers!” Gabriel cheered once more, “Because, you know, I’m a happy guy! But there are some things, some very particular things, that turn the little angel I am,” He said, making a halo with his hands, “to an absolute dick.”

“Oh, really? Well, I would have never figured you could be anything less than angelic.”

“Why thank you, truly, thank you. Thank you, for everything! Really, I’m being serious here,” to confirm his sincerity, Gabe through a hand against Dean’s forearm, and for the first time he actually seemed a little intimidating.

“Thank you,” He continued, “for waking me up at three in the morning to the apple pastries and buttery cookies. Really, it is something amazing to see little Castiel working his cutie pie butt off at anytime of the day, but three AM really made the whole thing that much better.” He told, spinning on a heel.

“But see, one of those little things that makes me fall from the will of God, Dean-o,” Gabriel snared, running his hands along a display of records, “is after I get up to the sight and smells, I am denied of even breaking a mere crumb from the desserts. I am told repeatedly,” He twirled back around, his voice now mimicking, “Oh no Gabriel! Don’t you think of laying one finger on those pastries! Oh no Gabriel! Those are all for Dean Winchester! No Gabriel! No! No! No!”

Dean's throat tightened.

"You know he keeps trying desperately to find what your favorite is? He's betting if he does he can perfect it, then he’ll no longer be in debt to you or whatever." Gabriel shook his head with a sad sort of smile, one that made Dean feel sick to his stomach. "I'm not going to educate you and tell you why it is actually you who needs to be forgiven, but I will demand that you at least give the sweetheart next door some sort of peace of mind. So that I can get a piece of cake. Okay? Okay."

Dean was wordlessly as Gabriel rattled his hands across the counter before striding to the door.

"Oh and Dean," the mad said over his shoulder, "that was a threat."

Gabriel nodded once to himself before pushing out the store, singing the words "-And I dug my keys into the side, of that pretty little soop four wheel drive-" as he tore through the sidewalks of 5th Avenue. (1*)    

Dean takes a moment to breath as he hears the dull bell, the silver one attached above the door of ‘Feathered Prints’ by a single tack yellow tack.

Castiel was at his desk, a rehearsed yet mumbled, ‘Welcome, we're closing in a few minutes, but feel free to browse’, meanwhile eyes trained on the book under his nose.

It was a cookbook and it equaled to a (miniscule) weight of guilt in the Winchester’s stomach, but not really.

Dean stalks over to the desk, hands deep in denim pockets.

“Can I help you with anything-” As Castiel’s eyes traveled up, his lips slammed down.

Dean loudly sucks in with his teeth, staring down at the page listing the ingredients of an acai berry crumble.

“Business must be really slow if you’re concerning’ yourself with… uh… whatever the fuck is going on in that. ” Dean said, gesturing towards the book. “Acai berry crumble sounds like ‘an eye of berry crumble’. Please don’t make an eye of berry crumble. That would be disgusting.”

The other only blinks before slamming the book shut and flinging it under the desk.

“It’s uh,” Castiel answers in a higher-sort-of tone, earning him a questionable glance, “ahm…” He rubs his hand over the back of his neck: nervous. Dean doesn’t do nervous Cas.

“It’s pie.”

Castiel pinches his left eye in that way he always does at Dean’s abrupt quip.

“Excuse me?”

“My favorite dessert,” Dean breathes, looking up to the other’s eyes and nodding once, “it’s pie.”

“Pie?” Castiel repeated, a slight frown sinking between his eyebrows.

“Pie!” Was said again as if it was the words of a new coming testament.

The brunette paused before nodding, the dark whips gliding along with him. “That’s understandable.”

“Understandable?” Dean chanted back, “that should have been your first guess!”

Castiel coughed at that.

“It is a particularly prominent pastry in the American culture.”

“Yeah? Well, uh, it’s also a... properly perfect, uh, piece of… perfection!”

“What an outwardly opinionated observation.”

“Oh but, it is entirelyempty of… everything… evil.”

“I would like to challenge your claims and prove them to be anything but an absolutelyaccurate assumption, but I have never indulged in the desert.”

Dean’s jaw falling a good three inches after a good seventy seconds of silence indicated the end of all fun and games.

“You-you,” He stammered rolling forward just over the desk, “you have never had pie?”

Castiel was tempted to shoot the other a nasty glare, but the minimal space between both their faces required an answer, a wordless moment would be all too uneasy.

“You say that like it’s some federal offence.”

“It should be!”

Even for someone as socially inept as Castiel, the hands banging down upon the glass, the even more forward presents of Dean’s breath against Castiel’s upper lip, and the unwavering green, the current situation was a bit too unbridled. Even if it was purely concerning pie.

“Well sorry,” He snapped, volume dropping as did his glance, blue falling somewhere to left, “I have not had it due to my upbringing.”

Maybe Dean felt it too, because Castiel glanced up fast enough to see him back away, arms snapping against his sides with the rest of him.

“Come on, get your hoodie.”

Again, Castiel was left confused, causing Dean to roll his eyes in apparent exhaust.

“We’re leaving Betty Crocker.”

“What? Where?”

“Pie, Cas, pie! I know a place a couple miles down.”

“Dean. First of all, why would I even consider-”

Said man huffed, loudly over the other’s words, “Hey, I’m not being nice here or nothing. You’re paying, consider it repayment for fucking with my car. “

“But I don’t-”

“Just meet me out front, you’re driving.”

Castiel couldn’t usher another word before that same damn bell bounced against the wood again.

Dean waited on Fifth Ave for a solid twelve minutes before he began cursing. Which is rather good for his sort of person. He probably would have began declaring Castiel a whole boatload of ‘b’ words five or so minutes ago, but Dean thought he was playing it smart this time, so he waited to unleash his vocabulary onslaught.

“How did that little bastard get past me?” He muttered looking up and down the darkening street. He waited just outside the bookstore so that Castiel wouldn’t be able to escape the scene, but somehow, the store was closed, the area was desolate, and there was not a car in sight.

“Son of a bitch could have at least given me a ride home.”

Just as Dean flipped open his cell, deeming that waiting another moment would prove pointless, slow tires and moving gears sounded from behind.

Turning with a quirked brow did Dean Winchester watch the silhouette emerge from the Termination Zone.

He hunched over a laugh as finally the object was hid from obscurity. There he was, Castiel Milton, all sooped up on two big wheels, his hands resting on rusty metal handle bars, and even a bell. A fucking bell.

“Nice ride, man!” Dean guffawed as Castiel moved himself just off the sidewalk, “The girls must come crawling.”

“You’re a riot, Dean.” He muttered back, sighing as he pushed down the kickstand, “But I don’t see how women have anything to do with this.”

“Of course you don’t.” Dean grinned at the other’s pensive stare, only wavering as Castiel jaw clenched in that tense sort of way.

“What?”

“Well, I’m willing to go, to take us, to where ever it is that sells these pies you seem fascinated with, but…”

“Ah.” Both pairs of eyes rested on the shabby bicycle.

“I think… if we both rode this then it might be-”

“Weird.”

Dean watched Castiel swallow hard before nodding. A few days ago they were both plotting each others named deaths. Perhaps they still are. Sharing a seat and holding tightly to each other would just not fit the natural flow.

“You could drive.”

“I can’t actually. No car,” Dean said, taking only slight pleasure at the way Castiel visibly tensed, “the tow company had to do some sort of renovations and a few of the bigger ones had to be shipped elsewhere. I’m getting it back in a week or so.”

“Dean, I am…” Castiel, even under the blackening sky, appeared entirely at a loss.

“We could walk.”

Dean inwardly growled as Castiel switched gears.

“Too far.”

“Somewhere else must serve pie if they are so delicious.”

“Actually,” Dean mused, “that Italian pub has some quality rhubarb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes For Chapter 3  
> (1*) Carrie Underwood, Before He Cheats. Gabriel isn't talking about cheating, more along the lines of punishing Dean if he steps out of line. Gabriel isn't someone to be reckoned with! >:D
> 
> Hey everyone rather short chapter, but HEY I wrote the next one already! Your comments warmed my little heart and trust me they make a HUGE difference!! Keep em coming babes! Love K


	4. Balthazar, Elvis, and Cas Being So Bam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel Milton, the one who quite literally uses bookshelves to barricade himself from society, the one who looks oh so willing to behead any sort of annoyance (primarily Dean) with the flick of the wrist.
> 
> Dean could kill him right then if he wanted to. He faintly wondered if Castiel thought about that (no question he would obviously, if he wasn’t so goddam trashed).
> 
> Castiel fucking Milton, with his black lashes kissing his blooming cheeks, rosy wet and (Dean bet, no swore, warm) tongue, that little dimple on his chin (where angels touched, Dean told anyone who pointed out his own cleft), whole face aglow from the light of the shitty little pub. Just there mouth open, and waiting for Dean (sworn enemy, or rival, or whatever the hell he was) to fucking feed him.

“Welcome to Josephine’s, I’ll be your server tonight!” A blonde girl greeted cheekily, her ponytail jumping along with her bust at every other word, “What can I start you off with?”

Dean grinned, clearly enjoying the view, “Get me a couple ‘Corona’s, honey.” She nodded returning the smile, either not noticing or caring about Dean’s shameless angle of vision.

“How about you, sir?”

Castiel thought deeply about the question. He looked over at little miss ‘Care-A-Lot’ and her sunshiny face with her black button up blouse and proud metal name tag then across the table at the smart-ass who clearly must not have been a teacher’s favorite in high school, leather draping every inch of his torso.  As if the man had something against cows. (1*)

Castiel assumed long ago that Dean had either a horrible history professor or some tragic back story, his brain trying tattoos and women's haircuts to the cowboys riding horses into sunsets. For Some reason Dean was the complete mix of both eras.

All three of them, around the little table with their tall chairs and stupid looks. There was no explanation worthy, no situation plausible, to form a reason for Castiel being here. Unless he died someway along the way. Dean may have killed him. Death was the only way.  Castiel absently wondered what level of hell he made it on.

“I’ll take a pint glass of straight gin.”

Dean’s smile, the one directed at the chesty blonde turned 45 degrees then, how it was possible Castiel was unsure, grew and Castiel was somehow forced, he figured by Satan, to smile back a little. Only a little though.

The waitress jotted down the drinks and dashed to the bar and back merrily, ponytail and all.

“You know, you’re kinda weird.” Dean said through those overturned lips, glancing at the waitress only momentarily as she set down the beer at his end of the table, “I mean, you take your coffee with a pound of sugar, but you order gin right from the barrel.”

Castiel chugged down a mouthful, not looking up at the girl because her cheer pissed him off for some reason. Dean finished his first beer by the time the second one hit the table.

“I find it ironic it’s you who is saying this.”

“How so?”

“Why do you hold such loathing over cattle?”

A familiar tone was taking over their speech. A comfortable sort of jab, but Dean didn’t want it, and for once in his natural born life, Dean Winchester would back down.

He shrugged, mouth not faltering as Castiel’s head slightly tattered. Dean loved seeing that mini crease between his forehead.

“I do love my worn leather,” Dean puffed, leaning back with another beer secured in his palm, “probably some fucked up childhood thing.”

“Thought so.” Castiel breathed into his drink, now debating whether or not a straw would make the alcohol that much better.

“But what about you, Cas?”

Dean wasn’t sure if Castiel was looking at him because he was yet again using that little pet name he fought against, or because he was actually asking him a question. Not a insult, not a jab, not a mock of any sort.

Castiel decided, even if his reasoning was flawed, anything that could possibly make his drink stronger was worth it, and he clumsily fished a fat straw out of his water and dropped it into the gin. Although straws do not amplify the alcohol content, they do make it extremely difficult to know how much has been drunk.

“Hey? Come on,” Castiel should not have used the straw.

“I-I don’t like much of anything.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I find you hard to believe.”

“You sure the gin was the best choice for you? You’re kinda missing the straw there, Cas.” Dean had to cover his grin with his left hand, vision trained on the man whose pink tongue surged after his straw like it was free healthcare.

The pub’s lighting was flickering in the back of Castiel’s brain by the time he latched onto the straw, floor swirling and he swore there were more people in there a moment ago. Temporarily he believed that to ‘suck’ one must breathe in from the nose. Perhaps gin was a little much at the moment.

“How about music?” Dean said after a minute of drunken entertainment.

“Music…” Castiel removed himself from the straw, even though it would probably take the two decades to get reacquainted. A lightning bulb flashed between his eyes as he looked up at Dean as if he had just realized the answer to one of those mathematical million dollar question.

“I like music.”

“Something really good because it _sucks_ not having a car.”

 

Dean snorted, hand clapping around the bridge of his nose.

“Everyone likes music. What about artists?”

“Ah, I appreciate blues, some soft rock, Jazz and swing... the older legends.”

“Okay, not really what I was looking, but it’s something.” Dean chuckled, grabbing himself another beer, “I like how you speak nice even when you're hammered.”

“Hammered?”

Before long the waitress was back, clipboard ready and friendly as ever.

“Have you finished looking at our menu?” She sang while filling both men’s untouched water.

“Actually,” Dean stretched his arms out wide, “we’re just looking for some good pie.”

“Dean,” Both waitress and customer snapped their gaze to the distressed voice, “I do not like MC Hammer.” (2*)

The girl used the clipboard to muffle her giggle as Dean shook his head slowly.

“Okay Cas, don’t worry, he can’t touch this. And yeah, so, pie.”

Both the waitress and Castiel nod simultaneously, the woman now reaching over to clear away the empty bottles.

“So, now I know you like the oldies. What about,” Dean slurred, now himself feeling a small wave brought by the drinks, “Elvis?”

The waitress’ hand paused for a mere moment, knuckles turning white over one of the beer bottles.

Castiel hummed a noise then shrugged in agreement. “Sure, Elvis will always be great.”

“Yeah,” Dean mussed back, “I can dig Elvis.” (3*)

The sound of glass split across the floor above that the waitress, now staring at the two of them, eyes wide, joy gone.

“How dare you cross that line!” She yelled, her fingers shaking before they came up and raced across Dean’s face. Slapping him in the best way she could.

The girl looked over at Castiel, a slight whimper leaving her lips as she scurried into the kitchen.

Both sat in silence for a long while after that and drank.

“Does this mean we don’t get any pie?”

“Son of a bitch better get us some pie, r’ else.”

“Or else you’ll go hammer time?”

“Hammer time y'all. Feel this come on. Iraq shit you heard. Come on” (4*)

Ten minutes later the glass was cleaned up and an order of strawberry rhubarb was sent to the kitchen. Free of charge. Which brought about the next topic of conversation.

“So, since you’re not paying for this,” Dean started as he handed Castiel his spoon and the salt shaker, “then really you need to do something else for me.”

Castiel took the salt shaker and slipped it above the napkin dispenser, the spoon acted as part of the support system.

“Something really good because it sucks not having a car.”

Castiel appeared to be too lost in making his tower of all miscellaneous items the tallest it could possibly be to answer.

“Cas?”

“Castiel.” His answer automatic no matter his level of intoxication, and it sort of made Dean snort out a chuckle.

There was a moment where the only sound was the clanking of forks from another table at the end of the pub, and the wobble of the metal napkin dispenser which seemed to be supporting the better half of Cas’ structure.

“I am sorry.”

Dean’s movements could be best described as a flinch.

“I was not thinking properly and I truthfully forgot the importance of automobiles, myself not having one since prior spring.”

It was what Dean wanted to hear, what he deserved goddammit, but to be completely honest, he wasn’t sure he liked hearing it as much as he should have.

“I am also sorry for being the cause of your date to be floundered.”

It all sounded smooth but that.

“What date?”

Castiel sunk lower into his chair, deflating with an observant expression. “I assumed that your Friday plans involved some sort of romantic evening with another person. Or a dog. I am still unsure of your sexual tendencies.”

“Nah, not a date.” Dean respondent refusing to address that last bit, “Actually,” He hummed, huddling closer into the table, voice lowering like he was in the midst of revealing some secret, “I was gonna see my brother for the first time in a while.”

Castiel frowned, leaning back after noticing he too had mimicked Dean’s motions. “Well, now I feel even worse.”

There was a beat of silence, one only noticed by the waiter peering off from another table, both scraggly looking men seemingly studying each other.

“Huh, I didn’t expect that out of you man,” Dean admitted, taking another swig of his beer even though they both knew he shouldn’t, “I told the same thing to Benny and he, oh Benny is a friend of mine, he said it was a good thing I wasn’t missing out on some hot bitch.”

“Family comes first.” Another phrase, this one familiar to Dean as well, left Castiel’s lips like a rehearsed prair. “Family always comes first.”

Dean unintentionally banged the bottom of his empty bottle on the table, then proceeded to raise a finger towards the other who sat looking somewhere between studious and weary.

“See, that right there,”

“Me?”

“Yah, you,”

“Well, I can’t see me…”

“Well I can see you!” Dean banged his bottle twice more, this time a little more intentionally. The action was obnoxious to say the least, but it did get the drunken brunette’s attention.

“You’ve got some really good character, Cas. I c’n always just’ tell, you know? And, even, even, even though you don’t really like show me your nicities, I can still see em’. Like, you’re always doing’ some kind stuff. This one time I saw you run right into the street’ in the pouring rain, and save a baby kitten.  Who the fuck does that? I’ll tell you who, the good guys in every movie ever. The one who looks all ‘fuck this’ ‘fuck dat’ then just **bam**! And that’s you Cas. ” Dean was so smashed, so fucking smashed,  but at the moment everything he said right there was a flawless display of his drunken emotions.  “You’re just so bam, Cas.”

Dean was trying so hard to see, or even hear what Castiel was saying in response, but his whole face was just spinning, and shaking, and Dean decided that the water on the table would be of good use.

“But, my brother’s actually gonna come see me later this month.” Dean puffed after things began returning to a steady drum.

“That’s good I-”

“Castiel, I knew I saw your precious face from way over there,”

Dean was pleasantly surprised at the waiter who ran up to the table, but more pleasant than surprised because in his hands was the steaming hot pie.

Castiel blinked up at the blonde man in the usual restaurant attire, then smiled small.

“Balthazar, what is it you are doing here?”

“Well cousin,” Dean raised a brow as this Balthazar guy put both hands into the air, “I work here now.”

Castiel pouted and Dean nearly coughed up a mouthful of whip cream. Castiel doesn’t _pout_. “But what happened to your job at the bank?”

Balthazar laughed, every action louder then the next, “You see Cas,” He began, leaning over the table and into Dean’s personal space level to the level only this family seemed to achieve, “apparently it’s a ‘federal offence’ to give out fake mortgages to certain ethnic groups and then send a portion of their profits to the boys back in Poland. And, well, if I can’t do that then what’s the point of working in a bank? Am I right or am I right?”

“What the hell?”

Balthazar turned his total attention to Dean. Dean realized quickly this is not something he wants.

“And who might this be?”

“Uh, Dean Win-”

“De-Dean? Dean? Dean Winchester!” Balthazar cut him of the second he said his name. “This is the little shit, Cassy? He looks like a fuckin moron!”

Dean inwardly cringed. Clearly he was not a family favorite in the Milton household. But hey, just means there’s nothing loose.

“Says the guy who quit a banking job to serve dessert at a cheap pub...”

Balthazar just stared at him in absolute repulsion for a moment before snickering something under his breath. His hands were quick enough to lift the pie from the table, but not enough no escape the wicked force of Dean prying him by the wrist.

“Where do you think you’re going with that?” No one gets between Dean and his pie.

Balthazar blew out his lips and huffed in annoyance. “Revenge is a dish that taste best when served cold.”

Dean quirked his brows together, hearing the words circulate through his head once more.

“Did you just quote the Godfather?”

“Oh,” Instantly his face softened, the pie dropping safety back to the table where it belongs. “Guess you’re not so bad after all.”

With that, and a hand ruffling through Castiel’s blackish quills, he retreated back to the kitchen.

“He’s... um,” Dean began, trying to think of a word to fit the man. It seemed he did not need to because Castiel was nodding instantly in agreement.

“Yes, he is very um. A kind um, and a good cozum.”

Dean snorted, pushing the pie closer to the other man who had yet to even take a nibble of the desert.

Castiel looked down at the partially eaten dish and then back at Dean. He was unsure.

Dean nodded back, handing him a fork from the empty table next to them, one that was not already added to the three foot tower which loomed, somewhat terrorizing, over to them.

Castiel picked a small speck onto his fork, but was stopped before he could move it to his mouth. Dean grumbled something rather negative before collecting a hefty heap around the utensil. Castiel looked at it, analyzed it, did extensive research on it before Dean had had enough.

“Cas it’s not going to kill you. I swear it’s good!”

“Yes,” He hissed back, all too weary of whatever it was he would soon be eating, “but you also think blasting loud music at nine A.M. is good!”

“Look,” Dean said in a hushed voice, “I really is.”

“You don’t sound anymore convincing when you whisper.” He whispered right back.

“Cas! I’m getting seriously mad over here!”

“Well, it looks unappetizing to say the least!”

Dean huffed into his lap, perhaps to avoid an aneurysm. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath he nodded. “Okay,” he said to himself, “Okay.” This time to Castiel.

“I don’t understand what it is you believe is ‘okay’.”

“Don’t look. Just close your eyes and open your mouth.”

Castiel felt his chest bang for a moment as Dean reached over and pulled the fork from his fingers. Another moment, a more noticeable moment of pause, before Castiel leaned forward, eyes falling shut and jaw unhinging.

Dean pushed his lips together so harshly they formed a straight line.

Castiel Milton, the one who quite literally uses bookshelves to barricade himself from society, the one who looks _oh so_ willing to behead any sort of annoyance (primarily Dean) with the flick of the wrist.

Dean could kill him right then if he wanted to. He faintly wondered if Castiel thought about that (no question he would obviously, if he wasn’t so goddam trashed).

Castiel **fucking** Milton, with his black lashes kissing his blooming cheeks, rosy wet and (Dean bet, no swore, warm) tongue, that little dimple on his chin (where angels touched, Dean told anyone who pointed out his own cleft), whole face aglow from the light of the shitty little pub.  Just _there_ mouth open, and waiting for Dean (sworn enemy, or rival, or whatever the hell he was) to _fucking_ feed him.

And maybe it was just the alcohol, but Castiel just looked so _trusting_ at that moment. And maybe it was just the alcohol but it all felt really good right then. And maybe it was just the alcohol, but Dean thought they should maybe get more alcohol  again sometime.

Of course, happened next was bad. Castiel popped open his eyes, having been waiting for sometime, and Dean, panicking because he felt caught, surging the fork forward, “Dean? What a-” into Castiel’s mouth which now was not being held open to eat but to talk.

He choked, loudly, un-romantically, and sort of disgustingly, hands flailing out and slapping down their tower. Everything just going everywhere with a ear bursting crash.

“You shitbox! You fucking stabbed my esophagus, you dick-headed ass!” And if that didn’t earn everyone last person in the pub’s attention, Castiel’s colorful vocabulary did.

Dean waved his hands around as Castiel brutally went into another fit of coughs.  “I-I-I didn’t mean to!”

“I knew you were trying to kill me!” So he did think about it.

“I wasn’t,” Dean said quickly, “I wasn’t “

“You think repetition is going to make me believe you?”

“Cas-”

“Castiel!”

“Whatever, look, I wasn’t trying to kill you,” He ushered desperately, and god Dean can’t remember the last time he was desperate, “I was just trying to surprise you with a forkful of perfection!”

Castiel didn’t speak. He just stared back like a wet dog would while it rained from one cloud above his head.

“And it was a fork full of perfection now wasn’t it?” Dean said back, even swinging his arm out as he used the weakest, widest, most guilty smile in the book.

“Oh definitely,” Castiel finally answered, after one of the most suspenseful two minutes of Dean’s life passed by wordlessly. He loudly smacked his lips together, seeming to be feel for the taste in his mouth, “the metallic taste of my own B positive blood was the perfect marination.”

Dean laughed. He was horrified of what Castiel was going to do to him, but still he laughed, and it probably made the man even more pissed.

“Come on, it was funny!” Castiel growled something under his breath which to Dean sounded a lot along the lines of Latin/satanic summoning.

“It’d be funnier to see you’re head on a skewer.”

“Aw,” Dean smirked, leaning close enough to see Castiel’s knees shifting in his seat, “but I make you’re life fun.”

“Shut up,” He mumbled back. Castiel thought Dean’s cheeks might explode from all the smiling he was doing, (he assumed it would be a loss… he had a nice array of freckles going for him) completely unaware of the fact the the man’s ego was doing cartwheels because he definitely did not deny it.

“Make m-”

“So I take it you two are wrapping up here?” Castiel nodded as Balthazar passed over the bill eyeing the random items scattered across the floor. The  thought about giving his cousin lessons on being polite to customers, but then again…

“Oh, Gabriel rented some independent film from ‘Blockbusters’, Mr. Winchester and I were just about to head home.” Castiel said, eyes darting to Dean who nodded, and Balthazar who wore a wicked look Castiel knew well… but couldn’t understand it’s placement. “You can,” He raised a dark eyebrow at the man who returned the look instantly, “walk with me back to the apartment if you so desire…”

Instinctively Castiel felt around his back, just in case a ‘Kick Me’ sign happen to find its place there. He was terrified to find nothing. Blue eyes wide, Castiel searched for anything, anything at all, that could be out of the ordinary.

Balthazar nodded smugly, with an evil sort of cackle, “Oh no, I would love to, but see, me and Vlad have plans to ride a few Grizzlies in the better part of Ukraine.” The bill. Castiel snatched it up in one fluid moment. “So, tata for now!” (5*)

Dean blinked twice, frowning because he was immensely lost.

“Vlad… does he mean?” He turned to look at the other and, “Woah, you okay? How much is it? I thought they were only charging for the drinks!”

Castiel was lobster red. From the hem of his ratty sweatshirt to the top of his hairline. Quickly, too quickly he snapped ‘it’s fine’ before scrunching a handful of bills into the folio, then stuffing the receipt into his pocket.

Dean sighed dropping his shoulders before raising from his seat. “Okay, weirdo.”

Castiel only nodded before following the other out the door.

Kicking his timberland into the ground Dean let out a content puff of white air. “Nothing like beer and pie, eh Cas?”

Swallowing thickly Castiel’s fingers fished around with the thin paper in his hands. The words went right through him.

“So you wanna see if I can find us a ride. I know you have your bike but I’m sure Bobby could-”

“Dean,” Said man’s stomach churned at the heavy tone. “I ride here and back every day. It’s fine. I’ll likely see you tomorrow. Goodbye.”

The ball in Dean’s throat moved up and down as he nodded his heavy skull. “Right, yeah, tomorrow. Sounds good.” Castiel probably did not hear him however, for his back was already swinging over his bicycle.

He pedaled home without stopping. Without unravel the receipt that read eight 'Corona' beers, two pint glasses of 'McCormick' dry Gin, and _‘Foreplay doesn't have to hurt boys~  Mario Puzo.'_ (*6)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Four Notes
> 
> (1*) The Care Bears live in Care a-lot, they are cute little bears who spread sunshine and friendship. The Care Cubs live in the Forest of Caring. You didn't need to know that but you should. Caring is important!  
> (2*) MC Hammer is the guy who goes Can't Touch This! , bunnanna nu nu nu nuuu. If you don't know that song then I feel you have missed out significantly in life.  
> (3*) Fourth Wall? WHAT FOURTH WALL?!? Or actually... maybe that's a fifth wall... Idk, anyway if you don't get the reference... well you're lucky. (Twist And Shout)  
> (4*) Lyrics to Can't Touch This  
> (5*) http://globalflare.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/the-russian-president-Vladimir-Putin-ladies-man7.jpg  
> That there, is current events my friends!  
> (6*) Main Character in the God Father. The quote IS NOT by him however.  
> OKAY THAT WAS A LOT OF NOTES! I really like this chapter and I hope you all do too! I poured my sweat and blood into it LITERALLY I pricked my finger and I. went. on. typing. (ohpoorudeangetsstabbedlikealwaysandyouprickedurfingerbigwhoop)
> 
> THANK U EVERYONE <3 (next chapter has KISSIIIIINNNN :D)


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